Monthly Archives: February 2017

Where we lived then some of our old window
panes were rippled; we looked through blue-green water
at lilacs and cosmos; in winter we looked through ice,
everything white, gray and frozen.
We had a baby then.
Some days winter sun, low in the south,
made rainbows on wide, worn floorboards.

Our daughter crawled to catch colors.
Then there were dark days, ice upon ice;
we looked at each other from either side of distorted glass,
neither one really seeing the other.
It was dark by four, windows leaked cold air,
on windy nights thumb latches rattled
answering mice in the walls.

Some things have to be fixed
if you want to survive winter,
not hide with your child under quilts.
It took us three years,
but we replaced the windows—
clear glass with no icy drafts.

Sometimes I wish I’d kept one of the window panes.
In the morning I’d look at fragmented iris,
their purple scattered here and there, or at icy rain,
or even at you in a different light—
not that I’d really want to go back—
except maybe to see our child
crawling after rainbows on the floor.

I know it will be quiet when you come:
No wind; the water breathing steadily;
A light like ghost of silver on the sea;
And the surf dreamily fingering his drum.
Twilight will drift in large and leave me numb
With nearness to the last tranquility;
And then the slow and languorous tyranny
Of orange moon, pale night, and cricket hum.

And suddenly there will be twist of tide,
A rustling as of thin silk on the sand,
The tremor of a presence at my side,
The tremble of a hand upon my hand:
And pulses sharp with pain, and fires fanned,
And words that stumble into stars and hide.

Her eyes are so alert, it’s as if she just found them.
The heat barely touches her, this devotee of song.
She’s not the sort to compromise, not yet.
She asks me about music, what I’ve heard and whom.
Did I hear the great Zhang Chu in the capital?

Her reverence for her art exalts them both. She’s
sure a celestial melody floats just above her head;
if only she could tug it down and play it then
the world would certainly change for the good.
The sun wouldn’t scorch, perhaps taxes would drop.

She is small, delicate, nearly a child, though
if you look closely, you’ll see that’s half true,
that she’s a soft soul in a hard cocoon.
Her faith is as unspoiled as her smooth skin.
Who would dare to scoff? Not me.

She asks my name and when I give it
I’m startled. She bows low, calls me Master,
can hardly believe it, tells me how much she
loves my old poem about Lake Weishan.
Her face is fervent as a praying monk’s.

Taking up her liuqin, she begins to sing
and it’s like running water by a dusty road.
I feel my forgotten poem surfacing from
Lake Weishan itself transformed, summoned
by the sudden beauty of this butterfly.

No tears when the stately old divan
departed. Only when the new owner
sawed off its middle leg to get through
the door, did it give my mother pause.
Meanwhile her three remaining pals
dutifully chose one shmata each
they’ll surely never wear themselves,
but come Christmas might offer the help.
Finally a few items had to be trashed
—moldy Good Housekeepings: recipes
she couldn’t bear to part with,
but never good enough to make;
tchotchkes varie: the alligator nut-cracker
from the Everglades, Baby Big Ben
that once played God Save the Queen,
olive oil we pressed ourselves in Spain,
surely rancid now,—then we thought we were done.
Till we looked at the glacier
that had formed in the freezer:
Interred there like a twelfth century mountaineer
hiding lost truths, were meals from lifetimes ago:
a meatloaf from the 90s buried behind
more recent triumphs; half pints of milk
smuggled from the Senior Center in case of natural disaster.
And this, a shriveled piece of wedding cake.Ma, that was to be eaten your first anniversary, for luck.
She pauses, thinks about her husband
long dead, longer mourned and says,Maybe that’s why things didn’t work out—
and drops it in the trash.

by Alan Walowitz

Editor’s Note: Some poems are meant to convey the human condition. This one lists the detritus and treasure of a life, with a kicker of a closing.